


Lost All that My Life

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [18]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angry Sam, F/M, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Scared Sam, Stanford Era, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jess scented of spring, sunflowers and mornings after rain. Alpha wasn’t yelling. He was stiff as a board, consumed.<br/>Forgets everything, when he looks at her.</p><p>Timestamp, Stanford Era, Sam POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost All that My Life

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Live It. Love It. Lust It. By Emarosa. Fairly adequate description, I think.

Sam’s got a few favorite pastimes.

To help him de-stress, if you will. He likes to run. Has a route he runs every morning, rain or shine, at exactly five am on the dot. He’s up and at ‘em, Ipod tucked into his armband, Nike running shoes laced up on his side table.

Six miles.

Burning miles, feel like God is ripping the wind from his sails, and Alpha is free, alert and fierce. Sam’s own running companion. They’re in sync, for the very first time in Sam’s entire existence, and what his Alpha wants, Sam feels compelled to give him.

Sam’s been all over Palo Alto, struggling to find a path he really, truly delights in. He wanted one that wound through wilderness, alone in the absence of sound. It’s like a hunt, dead air, and if Sam freezes, breathes in deep, he can hear the loading of rock salt.

_Sammy get your damn ass in gear_

Sam’s morning ablutions are the allotted hour he devotes to thinking about Dean. He tried, when he first arrived at Stanford, one solitary duffel bag and an extra pair of scarred black boots, handful of falsified credit cards and later, when he unpacked his bag, five hundred dollars, all of the bills in wrinkled states of disrepair.

Sam finds every last bill, rolled up tight in a Metallica shirt, Master of Puppets, circa ‘86. The shirt smells the exact same as when Sam had first slept with it underneath his pillow, boy-scent of Dean, sweat and summer fruit, ripening in the oppressive heat. Smells a bit like older Dean, now, distant non-scent, a dream of something better.

Sam had returned that shirt, years ago, hidden it among Dean’s things until he had come across it excitedly, big grin and smug eyes. Tugged it on, over top of his wife beater, nevermind that it was too tight, showed more stomach than either of them was comfortable with.

_You thought I’d lost it, didn’t ya, Sammy? Knew I’d find this bad boy._

Sam had hummed, lost in his thesis for his AP US History paper, Alpha sniffing hungrily in Dean’s direction, summoned free of volition to Dean’s joy, pretty scent wrapped in a bow.

Sam’s never cried as hard as he did that day, curled up on the dorm room regulation bed, he’s slept on far worse, too tall frame squeezing into nothingness, because he was so sure of what it meant to be in torment, to live in excruciating pain. Socked feet hanging over faux wood, too big.

But he’d never thought, not even for a second, he had never understood what it was like to live without a mate. He’d had Dean’s scent in his nose all his life. Dean’s prepubescent scent, comforting and familiar, without appearing threatening. Then, for a brief, shining moment, Dean’s omega scent, starburst of flavor.

Sam’s latent feeling of _mine_. Knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that this is what you were designed for.

_oh. So that’s what it is._

And then, even that was stolen from him. John had damaged his Alpha. John’s the reason Alpha is what he is. Scarred, primal beast, lives in fear veiled by oppression.

Sam’s allowed to think of Dean, once a day. His Alpha can’t settle for anything less. Smack of his feet in the dark of the morning, rhythmic breaths. Remembers Dean’s sleep noises, one short gasp if he was in the middle of a nightmare.

Sam, up on his knees beside him, spindly little thighs hooked around Dean’s waist as he pushes on his chest. Seven.

_Wake up Dean! S’just a bad dream!_

Dean’s hands, quivering, sharp little calluses scraping Sam’s baby-soft skin. Claiming marks.

_It’s fine. I’m fine. Go back to sleep, Sam._

Dean’s arms tangled around him, steel trap tight. Two little kisses on Sam’s nose, when Dean thinks he's asleep. Sam remembers squirming, hot little light inside him brightening like a beacon.

Sam’s running faster now, inflamed steps, cause Alpha is wide awake. Sam grants himself a snarl, anyone who would hear it is still asleep, and he still can’t think of his brother with any level of lucidity. Sam loops back to his apartment, lush bushes covered in little blue berries near his neighbor's patio.

He’d asked Jess if those were those poisonous fruits that were only meant for consumption by birds, and she’d looked at him so quizzically, he was positive that he had made a vital faux pas. He put a check beside that on the List, his personal continuation of the Winchester handbook.

_Do not sound uneducated about normal people affairs._

Jess.

Sam thought she was the single greatest thing that had happened to him, since he’d left home. Brady’d introduced them. Sam shoves open the door to the apartment, almost smacking the potted orchids Jess’ Great-Aunt gave her. Sam pulls off his socks, debating very heavily over whether or not they can even be salvaged. He’s had worse substances on his footwear, he reasons, dropping them into his dirty clothes bin.

Their apartment is fairly spacious, all things considered. It had been Jess’ and he’d moved in here because it was bigger than his own. Still remembers Brady dragging Jess into his sphere of vision, soft blonde curls bouncing, tiny little dress on, dark blue, wicked curves.

Sam would be lying if he didn’t admit that his Alpha preened, sat directly up and salivated. Jess scented of spring, sunflowers and mornings after rain. Alpha wasn’t yelling. He was stiff as a board, consumed.

Sam latched on to her with greedy fingers, ignoring the thumping bass of the house party, neglecting to check on Brady, who was probably off to engage in another marathon round of shots, sixth of the night. Sam forgets to be concerned.

Forgets everything, when he looks at her.

He wants to say that lasted longer. Wants to say that he couldn’t think of Dean for love of her, cradled himself in her meadow-scent, and found peace.

He's murdered Jess a thousand times, in a thousand ways, and Alpha mangled her corpse into something Dean-shaped.

She’s sitting up on the edge of the bed when he comes in, pink toes brushing gently against the carpet on her side of the bed. She’s gripping the sheets behind her with one hand, swaying gently in place, and Sam leans against the frame of his doorway, arms crossed. She’s motivating herself to wake up. His black running shirt is tangled in his hand, too sweaty to leave against his back.

He can tell the moment she scents him, her back arches a little and she flips her hair from her cheeks. “Sam, why the hell do you get up this early to run?” Her voice is muffled with lost sleep, and Sam crosses over to her, kisses her soundly on the forehead on his way to the bathroom.

“Technically, I was up earlier than this. And, I’ve got class in thirty, and I’m completely awake now.” Sam pushes white and grey shorts off of his legs, tugs boxers down in an afterthought. He bends over their shower and turns the water on, flicking the liquid around his fingers in a temperature test.

Sam pulls his hair out of his face. His joints are sore and uneven and Alpha is purring, giant cat on Pride Rock.

Sam can scent Jess’ arousal before she enters his field of vision, nipples hardening, seemingly under his steady gaze. She loves him like this, sweaty and disheveled, likes to sink to her knees and mouth at his slit. Coat her mouth in pre-cum and lick it away.

Sam twitches under her gaze, adrenaline hardening him further.

She’s so damn pretty. Gentle-eyes and sharp wit.

Likes to study anatomy for her classes on his naked body. Strips him bare and draws on him with Crayola markers

_they’re washable Sam, stop squirming_

Tells him if he can name all of the parts of the body with her, she has a surprise. Alpha’s excited, Sam not far behind. She straddles him, drawing intently, tongue poking an indention in her cheek. Her blonde curls brush against his nipples and she shrieks when she feels his dick poke her in the ass, from where she’s perched.

Sam raises brows sardonically. _You act like you never met him before._

Finally gets impatient and rolls her over, underneath him, on the red-wood dining table that her parents sent her to school with. Intricate swirls in the wood under her mane. Her eyes are dancing, and she glances down at his dick and then grins into his face.

_M’not done--_

Trembles a little when Sam growls, cause, he **is** done, and what Alpha wants, Alpha gets.

Slams into her, little porcelain doll, sunflower sweet scent, heavy scent of rain. She’s all wet-gasps, high sounds, and Sam punches into her sloppy pussy harder, until the sounds are phantoms, her mouth open in an incessant O. That’s it.

She scrabbles at his arms, fingernails dredging blood, trickling down his forearms aimlessly.

_Jesus, fuck, Sammy, goddamn animal--_

Sam’s hips stutter-jerk and stop entirely, drags out of her with a grunt, lands on the floor gracefully, balancing on the balls of his feet. Jerks himself off, as she rises on jello elbows, sticky, legs splayed apart obscenely. Mary Magdalene.

_Sam, what the hell?_

Sam turns into the kitchen, bumps knees on stainless steel appliances, ducks his head automatically out of reach of the spice rack, gotten paprika in the face before. Haunted memories. He grabs the grey dish towel, drops it on the wood in front of him and uses his foot, messily scrubbing at his release.

_Sam!_

She’s angry, legs snapped shut, smells like burning wood. Sam doesn’t know what to say. What the fuck does she want to hear?

_We didn’t have a condom. I freaked out._

Her face smooths over, the tang of confusion still in the air, sickly scent, and nods, to herself. He’s told her about Becca. Omitted the part about how she actually got pregnant, relegated the story to a ‘close scare.’ He grimaces.

Becca deserves better than that. She deserved better than him. Teenage fuck, all wolf and possession, blood oath, tempered in flames.

Hands stained in Dean’s blood.

But he loves her.

Oh, how he loves her.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've got several Stanford Era timestamps in the works, shoot me a comment if that would be interesting to you. Or, if they wouldn't be.


End file.
